


Shards of Us

by itwasprongs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Sad sad sad sad, i am trash, sometimes when i feel sad i make myself feel worse by writing these
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 19:38:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4534758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itwasprongs/pseuds/itwasprongs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because their life was not a fairytale and it ended before it had a chance to begin and when you face your death alone, it's hard to remember the times you weren't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shards of Us

It hurts sometimes (all the time) but he never tells anyone. Partly because he has no one to tell and partly because he has no clue what he would tell them. That sometimes he feels like running to the top of the Astronomy tower and jumping because then he wouldn’t have to be ripped apart every month and Dumbledore wouldn’t have to have special meetings with the school’s board of directors to assure them that  _it’s fine, he’s no danger_  and his Dad wouldn’t have to spend his evenings crying into books because  _it’s my fault you’re like this, I’m so sorry, I’d do anything to change it_. No, he couldn’t tell anyone that.

So he doesn’t and, sure, he can handle it (he has to be able to handle it) and act as if nothing wrong. He can do that. No problem. Sometimes he just doesn’t want to. Everyone else his age has pacts and secrets and shares everything with their best friends. He can’t. Confess to Sirius who doesn’t know how to change his sheets and can recite _Le Lac_  by Lemartine that he grew up alone and friendless and didn’t know that people could even have best friends. Admit to Peter who laughs at all his jokes and always steals extra food from the kitchens that he used to miss meals and force himself up all night because surely even a werewolf couldn’t survive starvation. Tell James who always, always makes sure the four of them are happy and healthy and whose parents send presents when one of them is ill that he wants to forget so badly that night but he can’t because the pain consumes him and all he can see is teeth sinking into flesh and his father screaming and screaming.

Lying is a lot easier than all that truth. His mother is ill, his grandma has died, it’s my cousin’s wedding, my mother is very ill, my mother is dying, my mother only has a few months left. Really, saying that is a lot easier than wishing he himself only had a few months left. And, for a while, he thinks it’s okay.

All through first year they believe him. People look at him funny when he returns and sometimes some of the older students joke about his scars when they think he can’t hear them yet it’s alright, because James and Peter and Sirius never ask twice and the only time he ever sees doubt on their faces is when Sirius says he can beat him at chess. It’s okay.

Second year comes and McGonagall calls him into her office and tells him the arrangement will continue,  _if you ever need someone to talk to Mr Lupin, you know where I am_  and sometimes, when he’s lying awake at night and he can feel the scars burning on his chest, he thinks about tiptoeing to her office and telling her he almost  _likes_  it when he changes because, for just a second, he doesn’t feel  _anything_. He doesn’t though. Never would.

James and Sirius and Peter are his friends. It feels so good to say it and think it and just  _know_  that they’ll be waiting for him outside Charms Club and they’ll throw him notes during History of Magic. Except, sometimes, he doesn’t know and he has to shut his eyes and pray that he’ll wake up and they won’t have realised how strange and alone and not-like-them he is. They never do seem to want to leave him however and that makes him feel just a little bit better.

He whispers it sometimes to the darkness. When they’re all asleep and the curtains are drawn and the world is dark and no one can hear him.  _I’m not like you. I’m a monster._  At least the night knows the truth.

When Madame Pomfrey and McGonagall escort him to the tunnel and into the shack they smile at him and the matron hugs him, hard and tight, and McGonagall seems to want to say something, it’s in her eyes and the thin line of her lips, and he feels like maybe if he could just drown himself in their safety nothing would hurt anymore. Sometimes when he wakes up and they’re not there he thinks that they’re never coming and the pain from the night will wrench him into fitful nightmares that feature cackling students and James telling him he wishes he had never met him and Sirius spitting on him and Peter saying he’s a danger to all of them and his parents lying dead because he got out and it’s his fault, all his fault. Everything is his fault. They come though. Pull him from sleep with potions and blankets and the thought that maybe McGonagall will tell him what he can see she so desperately wants to say.

One day when he comes back to the dorm and Sirius and James are whispering on James’ bed, everything is bad again. They don’t want to be his friends anymore. He’s weird and alone and strange and not-like-them. What other reason could they have for cutting their conversation short when they see him standing there? It’s all he thinks about for the rest of the week and he avoids them because it was inevitable, how could he have tricked himself into believing that they  _wouldn’t_  begin to hate him? He’s a monster. He can’t blame them. He knows why they don’t want to be his friend anymore, he thinks it everyday. He just thought that, finally, he had found three people who perhaps would never stop liking him. What a stupid thought.

He thinks his ribs might crack when he comes back to the dorm a week later and they’re all there, all three of them, waiting for him. Perhaps they want to tell him, explicitly and in no uncertain detail, that they no longer want him around. That must be it. Sometimes he thinks he wants to just disappear and right now, with Peter shuffling his feet and James wearing his I-can-make-the-whole-world-perfect expression and Sirius meeting his eyes without emotion in them, that’s exactly what he wants to do. When he most wants to, he never does.

For a moment they’re quiet and then they, James, tell him, explicitly and in no uncertain detail, that they know. And his world burns.

His head is spinning and his heart is thundering and he can’t feel his legs and surely, possibly, maybe, it can’t be true. How can they know? He wants to run, leave, disappear, get out of there but he can’t seem to move and then suddenly he’s falling and Sirius is jumping up, graceful even in panic, and catching him, a twelve year old boy who fears his family and grew up disgusted with dirty blood catching a twelve year old boy who fears hurting his family and grew up disgusted with his own dirty blood. It’s easy not to let him fall because Sirius would never let him fall and he is small, so thin and easy to catch because the habit of trying to kill the monster inside never quite stopped. James is there too, reassuring him in the soft voice he used when they found Sirius in the common room, distraught and shredding a letter from his mother with a feral look in his eye and holding his hand as he held Peter’s when Peter shook in his sleep and begged some imaginary person not to hit him. In the background there is Peter himself, shaking slightly and grabbing blankets to wrap around his shoulders because he remembers what it was like to feel so scared it was like ice was running in your veins.

It takes a while but eventually he isn’t shivering and sobbing and they are able to sit him down, all of them on one bed, limbs entangled because they are twelve years old and want to protect their friend, him.

_Theyknowtheyknowtheyknowtheyknowtheyknowtheyknowtheyknowtheyknowtheyknow._

It’s a pounding rhythm in his head, shattering his bones as they try to keep him whole, telling him they know but  _its okay. Don’t worry. We don’t care. You’re our best friend. We love you and we’re never going to leave. You are brilliant. Even though you steal the best yorkshire puddings and sometimes you snore in your sleep. You’re our best friend._ Whispered words that flood into his head and turn the ice inside into a blaze that for some reason, no longer hurts.

They don’t hate him. They don’t want to leave. He looks at them. Slowly. Carefully. Warily.

At Sirius who didn’t know what a television was and once asked for a dessert spoon. At Peter who thinks knock knock jokes are better than puns and can’t play gobstones to save his life. At James who spends Sunday afternoons filling in the crossword and hugs all his friends like they’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. And, he feels alright.

Sometimes he wants to tell his friends that nothing they could say would make all his problems go away and one day he knows he’s going to hurt someone and it will kill him and the monster that’s inside of him sometimes is all he is… sometimes though, in spite of all of that, he wants to tell his friends that he loves them (because he means it) and they really do make everything better. Sometimes, when they’re with him, he doesn’t feel any pain at all.


End file.
